


Red and Gold

by Annabelle_W



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Benny Lafitte, Alpha Sam Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Beta Castiel (Supernatural), Love Triangles, M/M, Omega Dean, POV First Person, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:14:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23429068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annabelle_W/pseuds/Annabelle_W
Summary: After a year spent away from his brother in the unending violent chaos of Purgatory, Dean is finally ready to mate his alpha brother.  Then he learns that Sam spent the year making house with a beta instead of looking for him.  But there's an attractive, dependable, single alpha just waiting for Dean to take notice.  Will he choose Benny?
Relationships: Benny Lafitte/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 70
Kudos: 107





	1. Out

**Author's Note:**

> Season fifteen gifted us with an image of Sam (well, Samifer) with glowing scarlet eyes. We now know how he looks with alpha eyes!
> 
> I'm writing this in the midst of attempting to be a competent mother, housekeeper, homeschool teacher, and wife, while stressing out over all of the above and more (for instance, how can I provide my autistic children with the therapy they need?) during the exhaustion of social distancing, so don't be surprised if my prose suffers a distinct drop in quality.

Dean's POV:

A few weeks ago  
Purgatory

We march through the perpetual dimness of the woods of the monsters' afterlife. Benny leads the way, affording me a wonderful view of the broadness of his shoulders, the casual strength of his muscular body, the quiet confidence of his measured pace. The occasional breeze tickles my nose with wafts of his enticing alpha musk.

Castiel follows behind, angelic senses on full alert for any vampires (other than Benny), werewolves, leviathan, shapeshifters, or more obscure creatures. His bedraggled trench coat slops over the dirt-encrusted, formerly-white scrubs he's been wearing since taking Sam's Hell-trauma along with his spot at an insane asylum. A patchy black beard obscures half of his face. 

It's strange: I haven't needed to shave since arriving here--or eat or sleep or locate a bathroom-bush--and angels never need to shave (or do any other human things), so the heavy stubble makes no sense. I should just ask about it. So, I turn around and greet my friend (after several hours of silence) with, "Hey, Cas, what's with the whiskers?"

He touches his face, lightly scratching the short hairs. "I do not have whiskers," he informs me.

Benny steps into our space, turning a line into a triangle. "He means your beard, Chief."

The angel's eyes widen with comprehension. "Oh. Well, my vessel reacts oddly to Purgatory. My grace has less of a hold on my body. I have also aged ten months and four days."

I blink. Hmm. That's the opposite of what's happened to me. My body seems to be in stasis. In fact, come to think of it, I haven't had a single heat despite my lack of suppressants. Good thing. My throat contracts as I imagine being caught up the throws of lust, desperate for a knot even if death came along with it. And attracting every monster in a two-mile radius with my ripe omega scent.

*

Three werewolves and a wendigo later, we're tramping across a muddy clearing, chattering about the most unusual monster kills we've made. "I injected myself with phoenix ash to kill the Mother of All," sneaking a glance to see if Benny is properly impressed. "Then I just had to provoke her into biting me."

Benny's eyes flash to my neck and he licks his lips. He swallows, blinks. "You know, I think I heard about a hunter taking out Eve." His creole accent makes this simple comment musical, sexy. "But I also heard the phoenixes were extinct. And I heard that from a phoenix I allied with for a few months." He raises a skeptical eyebrow.

"They are," Cas butts in. "I had to send Sam and Dean back in time to find one."

My lips curve upward as I recall living out my cowboy fantasy in the Old West. The clothes. The sheriff's badge. The old-fashioned standoff. Sam in a cowboy hat. Wait, where did that last thought come from? I mean, there's no question my brother has to be the most gorgeous alpha I've ever seen, but . . . .

"You used angelic time travel just to kill a phoenix, brother?" Benny laughs.

I grin at the vampire. "Sure did. Got to play Clint Eastwood and everything." I ignore his confused frown (I'm hanging out with two men who don't get my references?   
At least Benny has the excuse of having been dead for the past few decades. But now I really miss Sam). "Course, we got brought back before I could collect the ash."

Castiel looks contrite. "We were out of time. I'm sorry, Dean."

Benny's eyes dart between us. "So how did you get the ash?"

A sudden vision of Sam galloping across the fields slams into my mental universe, sends my heart racing in a confusing attempt to keep up with the imaginary horse's hoofbeats. "Well," I say, "My brother had to go convince Samual Colt to give us his monster-killing gun anyway and I don't know what, exactly, he said to him, but the dude totally Back to the Futured" matching perplexed expressions on the faces of my audience "us and had the ash delivered to our friend Bobby's door on the day we, well, wen't back to the future." I feel a grin overtake my mouth.

Benny gives me an odd. "Quite the charmer, your brother, I take it?"

I nod. "Guy has a pair of puppy eyes that no one can resist."

Benny hums. "He an alpha?"

"Hard to believe, isn't it?" I allow myself a fond smile. "He was this nerdy little kid who loved Lucky Charms and soft rock and then he presented and suddenly he was seven feet tall-"

"Six-five," Cas interjects.

"-and he had shoulders out to there" I stretch out my arms "and half the beta girls who came up to me wanted his number instead of mine." I pause. "Not that I ever told him that."

A lone monster--rugaru--rushes at us with a guttural roar. Benny pulls me aside while Castiel smites him. No, her. "Can't help noticing you're unmated." He gestures at my grimy (but definitely unmarked) neck.

I raise an eyebrow. "You making a move?" There's no denying the man's rugged handsomeness. I normally prefer women, but maybe if Benny wasn't a vampire . . . .

"Not here," he says. "But we'll be out of here soon. And then . . . ." A crooked smile. "Let me just say I've enjoyed getting to know you."

"Same," I reply. Still, I'm relieved when Cas rejoins us and we resume our trek towards the mysterious Earth portal. (And Sam!). Somehow, flirting with Benny feels strangely illicit, almost like cheating. Why? It's not like I'm in a relationship with anyone. Sam's multi-colored eyes, sparkling with warmth and love (and a hint of possessiveness) flash through my mind.

Oh.

OH!

Of course, it's Sam. It's always been Sam. Figures it took a few months in Purgatory (and the company of a compatible alpha) for me to see it.

Hmm.

It's not like I haven't noticed him checking me out (mostly when he was soulless, but still). The boy is going to get the welcome of his life when we reunite!

*

Now  
Earth

Sam saunters into the cabin, larger than life, glowing with health and an unfamiliar, unexpected serenity. His hair falls a few inches longer than I remember it, brushing past his shoulders, and it's streaked with an almost golden color, lightened by the same sun--I'm guessing--that gave him that dark tan. When he hugs me, I feel the sleek muscles that come from hours at a gym instead of quick workouts between hunts. His alpha scent swirls around me, free from the gunpowder, whiskey, fear, and loneliness that characterize a hunter.

But that makes it only more authentically, unadulteratedly Sam. Old books. Pine. Coffee. Alpha musk.

I breathe in deeply before disentangling us. The faint aroma of beta female makes me pause for a moment, but I shrug it off as the lingering smell of a recent hook-up. It's not like I expected my brother to be celibate during my absence. 

Still, a thorn of jealousy pierces me, blossoms into a determination to ensure that Sam never again seeks relief with anyone but me.

Except. Why does it feel like there's such a wide gap between us? Why does he seem so distant? I know that's it's taking both my mind and my body (I still feel neither hungry nor tired) a while to acclimate to being back on Earth, but . . . but . . . . Always before, returning to Sam--or having Sam return to me--felt like two magnets snapping together. Even when he was soulless. 

Now, though . . . .

Maybe I just need to make a move, force our relationship into territory we've been skirting the edge of since Sam popped his knot.

I sidle up to my brother, gaze up at him through my eyelashes while rubbing a hand up and around his shoulder. His eyes darken; his hand lifts to cover mine. Alphas: so predictable, so easy to manipulate, since they're always thinking with their knots. I allow myself a mental fist-pump as I slink under his arm, reach up to caress his smooth-shaven cheek.

He (gently) pushes me off, steps away.

I freeze.

As I thaw, I connect this coolness with his sun-doused appearance and the revelation that he no longer hunts, as well as the reek of beta girl hovering around him. (And I can't help recalling Benny's dependable honesty, easy companionship, casual protectiveness).

"Who is she?"


	2. Connections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On Tuesday, my oldest (very autistic) kid turned off the computer when I was in the middle of a subtraction lesson with his two siblings. The grumpy old man of a desktop I'm using (because the same kid broke both my laptop and the one I bought to replace it) refused to turn on until the next morning, by which point everything I'd been working on was deleted. Including the first third of this chapter. 
> 
> All I have to say is that, after a few weeks of social distancing, all I want is a few hours alone.

Sam's POV:

A few months ago:

Amelia snuggles against my side on the wooden park bench, her pale fingers playing with the hem of my flannel as we watch Riot bounding joyously over the sun-drenched public lawn, exploring every inch of the verdant expanse, only pausing occasionally to trip back to make certain we're still there and/or to beg for pats or the treats he knows Amelia always keeps in her pocket. Sometimes, he brings us treasures he finds: a stick he wants us to throw, a half-eaten apple, a muddy stuffed rabbit abandoned (or forgotten) by a little girl or boy before the last rain. 

My beta girlfriend reaches down to pluck a dandelion from the grass near her scuffed sneakers. She twirls the stem while chatting about her work. Her complaints du jour are mostly about the owner of a feline mom who refuses to get her pet spayed. Apparently, the woman in question really loves kittens and has no lack of friends who share her affection for the tiny beings (and, thankfully, the adult animals they grow into). Amelia angrily rips the thin yellow petals from the flowering weed. "I mean, at least she keeps her constantly pregnant cat healthy, but . . . "

I tune out. Sometimes I wonder how much I love or even like Amelia. There's something so negative, so pessimistic, so often bitter about her personality. Normally, I prefer fun-loving women, preferably full of sly jokes and geeky references. Jess always made me laugh, always helped me see the bright side of any situation, from a disappointing grade (like a B) to the celebration of my least favorite holiday (Halloween). 

Amelia drops the tattered remains of the dandelion onto the ground. Now she's ranting about the necessity of giving fresh meat--preferably organic--to pregnant kitties. She really does love animals. Their human companions?--Maybe not so much. She was certainly rude enough to me when we first met, insisting I adopt the dog I accidentally hit with Dean's and my--no, now just my--car. Riot races past, chasing a squirrel. My sadness over the intrusive memory of my late brother turns into a smile. Can't argue with the results. 

The beta shifts her position, heaves a sigh. "Don would have loved this park," she comments, changing the subject to the bittersweet reminiscences of our late loved ones that our conversations always seem to turn into. "It's so peaceful here, so green," she continues. "Did I ever tell you he was an omega?"

I freeze. Don was an omega. An omega who lost his life in the service of saving others. Like Dean. As if the two didn't already have so many similarities that, when Amelia rhapsodizes about Don, I almost imagine she's my inner voice talking about Dean. Even their names sound alike. "No," I croak, "you didn't tell me that."

She straightens her posture, moving a few inches away from me in the process. "Yeah," she says. "There aren't many omegas in the armed services" (or among the hunters) "but he was determined." She smiles, proud of her late husband. "He was so protective, always wanted to make the world safe for everyone. Especially me." Beneath the fog of unshed tears, her eyes are soft, fond. 

I have no idea what her husband looked like--she told me the photos were too painful to keep out--but I can't help picturing Dean. Even her relationship with him sounds strikingly close to the one I shared with my brother. Though, obviously, our bond wasn't at all romantic. Not that I failed to notice that Dean is among the most beautiful omegas I've ever seen. And. Yeah. What's Amelia saying? 

"He wanted to adopt kids from foster care," she informs me, with tears in her eyes, "You know, since we couldn't have children together."

Right, children. Omega males are made to carry babies, so they can't father them (except in certain extremely rare situations like having sex with a mythical being, such as a motherhood-seeking amazon). Of course, unlike Don and Amelia, Dean and I could, theoretically, have pups. If we were mates. Which we weren't. Why am I even having such thoughts?

Anyway, at least (some of) these thoughts explain the connection I feel to the lovely beta in my arms.

A bark ends our melancholy retrospection. I jerk up to see Riot prancing over to us, mouth open in a huge doggy grin. Amelia grins back, drops to her knees to throw her arms around the fluffy canine. 

The scene is so gloriously, picturesquely normal.

The normal I've longed for all my life.

*

Now:

Dean drives with one hand so he can sip from the small coffee I persuaded him to get at the Burger King drive-thru. He hasn't eaten or drunk a thing since meeting up with me, which is especially worrisome for a man like Dean, whose lightning-fast metabolism requires him to eat far more than your average omega. I'm pretty sure he hasn't slept, either.

All of which has my inner knot-headed alpha demanding I take care of him, protect him. "Want one of my fries?" I hold a delectably golden one enticingly in his direction. 

He spares it barely a glance. "Maybe later." He finishes his coffee, tosses the empty cup in the backseat, starts drumming impatiently on the steering wheel. After a moment, he bursts out, "So you really didn't look for me?!"

An image of a gloating Crowley pops into my head. Demons only tell the truth when they know the reality will devastate their audience and the King of Hell was utterly delighted to inform me that I was completely alone in the world. I shudder. "Dean," I begin.

He snatches the box of fries out of my hand. "Save it." His low tone proves that omegas are able to growl as well as the deepest-voiced alphas. He glares out the windshield as he stuffs the fries in his mouth three at a time.

He must have been hoping for a negative--that I would declare I spent the year searching desperately for someone who was no longer on this Earth. (Or in Hell, because Hell's king would have been more than willing to announce my brother's residence in his domain). And I should have, I suppose, but . . . but where do you begin to seek someone who's completely gone? Gone. Gone. Gone. I was nearly catatonic with grief until I literally ran into a dog. Nursing Riot back to health and helping Amelia heal from the death of her husband rescued me from the brink of suicide. "Dean," I try again.

"No." He slam-dunks the empty fries box after his coffee cup, steals what's left of my chicken sandwich. "I don't want to hear any more about your perfect life with that beta." He manages to make the word 'beta' sound like the foulest of curses. 

My alpha wants me to slam my fist on the dash and force the omega to listen to my explanation, but my softer, more rational side reminds him that Dean is finally eating--that this should make me happy enough to delay our impending fight for another time. Still, I can't resist allowing a hint of alpha voice into my tone when I spit, "Fine."

"Fine," he snarks back and turns up the radio, blaring The Temptations for anyone in a half-mile radius.

*

An hour later, we stop for gas. Dean pockets the keys and disappears into the convenience store, leaving me to pump.

I expect him to emerge fifteen minutes later with snacks and beer and (maybe?) other items of which he knows I'll disapprove--I think sometimes that he deliberately chooses to pollute his (somehow still gorgeous) body with unhealthy substances just to watch my nostrils flare and my eyes burn red--but he doesn't.

Well. I could use some bottles of water and I wouldn't mind a few protein bars, possibly one or two cans of mixed nuts. 

Dean isn't in the store. Or in the (surprisingly almost clean) restroom. 

My alpha raises his hackles, sends me image after image of the myriad of plausible disasters my omega brother could have gotten himself into, from a werewolf attack to getting arrested for credit card fraud to coming across a gang of alpha rapists. The world bleeds more than a little red when I race outside and around the side of the small building. 

I smell him before I see him.

The sweet apple-cinnamon scent he always diffuses when happy, when borderline turned on, flutters into my senses. Seriously? Did he ditch me for a hook-up? Why did I bother to worry that my fresh-from-Purgatory brother was in trouble when apparently he can't even wait until we stop for the night before locating someone to have sex with?

Fear morphs into anger.

I stomp around the corner, ready to pull Dean off whatever girl he managed to meet in this dingy way-stop. Only. There isn't one. He's just leaning against the bricks, with his phone pressed to his ear, a small smile gracing his stunning features as he listens to whatever his interlocutor is saying.

This. This is more serious than a hook-up.

I back away before Dean notices my presence, wonder why I'm feeling even more furious now--why I want to rip apart whoever put that soft smile on Dean's face.


	3. Shifts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the grumpy old man computer erased a nearly-complete chapter, I decided to delay this story until I got a new laptop. Awesomely, it arrived on my (36th) birthday.

Dean's POV:

1994:

Dad drops Sam off at the local elementary school, but instead of taking me to the high school, he drives us to an omega clinic. I gape at the unassuming brick facade for only a brief moment before asking, "Is there a hunt here?"

He turns off the Impala, swivels his burly body just enough to face me, his normally hard eyes soft, sympathetic, maybe pitying. "Son, you have an appointment." He hands me insurance and identification for 'Devin Wilson.'

I examine the cards. Glossy, professional, and I have no doubt the insurance is real. Plus the name is similar enough to mine that it'll be "Easy to remember." I slide the cards into my wallet, making sure to cover up the school ID labeled with my real name.

Dad nods approvingly. "That's why I chose it." He climbs out of the car, smooths down the brown leather jacket I hope will one day be my own.

I follow, attempt to move into step with him, but his stride is just too much longer than mine. In fact, I'm slightly out of breath as I ask, "Is there someone specific you need me to talk to?" Alphas aren't allowed past the waiting rooms of these clinics unless they're provably mated to pregnant omegas. (And, even then, school nurses have informed us, omegas are often taken to a private room and asked if they're certain they their alphas to accompany them). Uber alpha John Winchester has no easy way of sneaking into the interior of the clinic. But I have yet to pop my knot (I've been checking every morning in the shower since I turned fifteen) so I could probably pass for an omega.

Dad stops abruptly. He reflexively reaches out an arm to steady me when I stumble in an attempt to follow his lead. He keeps his hand on my shoulder as he gently spins me until my eyes meet his. "Son, we're not here for a case. This appointment is for you to get a suppressant shot."

The world surrounding the two of us grows hazy. "But . . . but I'm not . . . ." I can't be an omega. I'm an alpha, like Dad. I have to be.

He sighs. "Dean, I know that you strive to be as much like me as possible, but the truth is that you take after Mary." He jerks his lips in almost smile. "You even look like her."

My resemblance to my mother is undeniable--I've spent enough hours studying our few photos of her to recognize her features on my maturing visage. Still, "That's not proof of anything." Was that disrespectful? Just in case, I add, "Sir."

Dad's gaze deepens in earnestness, intensity. "Dean, I am your father and an alpha. I knew the moment your scent started to change. If you don't get that shot, you'll go into heat in less than two weeks." He gives my shoulder a clap, then removes his hand. "I'll be back in an hour."

I'm still dazed when the Impala roars away.

*

Now:

I hop on a picnic table in the forest clearing. Sam's at the library researching the case (or internet-stalking his ex or applying to colleges or looking for excuses to ditch me), so I should have several hours before he cares enough to wonder where I am.

Benny emerges from the woods within a few minutes, sunglasses protecting his eyes, hat shading his delicate vampire skin. He perches beside me, removes the glasses, allowing me to glimpse eyes that were never so breathtakingly blue in the perpetual dimness of Purgatory. "Hey, brother," he greets me.

"Hey, yourself." I grin. "Got something for you." I reach into my backpack, hand him a bloodbag while grabbing a beer for myself.

"Thanks, brother." His Cajun accent makes the phrase so much sexier than it would ordinarily be. "You're a lifesaver." He rips the bag open with his extra set of teeth, gulps a mouthful. "I'd forgotten how overwhelming the bloodlust can be." He shudders. "I don't know how much longer I could have held out."

I pop off the lid of my own drink, take a sip. My own body has come completely back on line, after the stasis of Purgatory. I grow tired enough to sleep at night. The smell of food makes my mouth water and my stomach beg. And--I down another swig of beer--even my addictions have returned, full force. Proving the point, my fingers start shaking and my wrists itching. 

A deceptively gentle hand caresses my bicep. "You feelin' okay, brother?"

I shrug. "Just going into withdrawal."

The hand tightens. "That doesn't sound like a 'just' to me." His normally soft voice drops into an alpha growl.

I stare blankly into the verdant trees. "It's strange. I need to smoke but I don't want to. That's never happened before." The reverse has. I emerged from Hell with a rebuilt body free from physical cravings, but the mental ones overrode that and I was a smoker again in no time. (Much to Sam's dismay). I quit for the duration of my year with Lisa, but the longing for a nicotine fix was neverending, so I started up again right when I began hunting again, as if the two went hand in hand together. (Much to Soulless Sam's amusement). But to find the thought of smoking unappealing, even as my body and brain work together to convince me to go buy a pack, is a completely new experience.

A large thumb brushes my shoulder, strays close to my neck. Is rapidly withdrawn as Benny scoots several inches away from me. He huffs a breath, squeezes the blood bag as he devours the final drops. He doesn't need to tell me that he longs to drain a human as much as his vampire instincts tell him he should.

I finish my own drink, toss the bottle into a nearby trashcan. Watching my fingers twitch, I continue, "Smoking just seems so pointless now. You know, after Purgatory. It requires standing around for several minutes instead of keeping an eye out for monsters. And it makes it harder to breathe when I'm fighting those monsters."

Benny's lips curve beneath his beard. "Guess I'm lookin' at a former smoker."

I bite my lower lip as I smile back. "Guess so."

Our gazes connect, lock together. I find myself inching closer. His scent beckons me with hints of saffron, woodsmoke, and blood. I breathe in deeply, my eyes dropping shut. Heat pools in my stomach, slick collects in my channel.

Benny hums, leans in near enough that his beard tickles my neck. I tilt my head to give him greater access. There's an almost infinitesimal press of lips against my pulse before his warmth disappears and my eyes pop open to see that he's jumped off the table and now stands, red-eyed and gasping, several feet away.

I cover my shock (and hurt at the implied rejection) with a wink. "My pheromones too much for you, buddy? Don't sweat it--happens all the time."

He clenches his fists, squeezes his eyes shut, clearly settling himself. When he reopens his eyes, they've returned to their lovely azure shade, along with depths of empathy and not a wisp of lust. "Something tells me that isn't true." He moves a single step forward. "You're going into heat, cher."

I blink, disbelief overriding the pleasure I feel at the endearment. Heat? I haven't ever had a heat. Yearly injections ensured that. The yearly injection that I was scheduled to get five days after killing Dick Roman, which I didn't get because they don't have omega clinics in Purgatory. (Not that they're necessary in a location where one's body retains the same condition it was in upon arrival). Even if my system retained some suppressants, they would have dissipated by now.

I really am going into heat.

*

The road wavers as I peer through my windshield, keeping a lookout for the motel. Sweat trickles off my hair, drips into my eyes. Slick soaks through my boxers while cramps accumulate in my abdomen. At least I'm not undergoing any inclination to fall to my knees in front of the nearest alpha. Yet.

Now I remember why I never wanted to be an omega.

I eventually got to the point where I loved my designation: The mix of masculinity and femininity that brought any woman I wanted to my bed while making men and alphas pliable. The advantage it gave me in hunts due to being constantly underestimated. (When a bit of time travel brought me face to face with my mother, she informed me the same holds true for beta women). The tempting knowledge that someday, in some alternate reality, I could carry children.

But that was when modern medicine kept my heats at bay.

Somehow, I make it to the motel without careening into any cars, road signs, or people. (Or dogs, like Sam claims commenced his months of domesticity with that beta).

I stumble into our room, ready to barricade it before texting Sam to find another place to sleep. For the next few days. Maybe he can use the time to conclude this hunt. I'm sure it's just a vengeful spirit, which means it's a milk run, even for someone who's rusty from abandoning his hunter duties for an entire year.

"Where have you been?" a voice snarls.

Sam. Sam's here. "I thought you were at the library." Heat-driven slick apparently accumulates faster in reaction to the attention of an alpha, however negative. Then again, I got wet for Sam on numerous occasions without having a heat as an excuse. (And wasn't I planning to mate with him before learning he values me so little?)

My head is so addled.

Sam marches up to me, all entitled knothead irritation, reminding me that even the most sensitive alphas still live such privileged lives they have trouble handling it when things don't go their way. "I was at the library, but I figured out what we're hunting, and you didn't answer your phone, so-" He stops, his eyes more crimson than hazel, his nostrils flaring. "Why do you smell like an alpha?"

I had no idea my brother's tone could drop to that decibel. And. Wait, why are there two Sam's? And this room always sway like this? No. Now it's spinning. And darkening.

Powerful arms circle me, catching me--I realize--before I hit the floor. Sam's scent surrounds me, soothes me, reorients me, calms my heat symptoms. (Other than the throbbing of my channel and the hardness of my groin). I'm rubbing against him, nuzzling him before my brain realizes what I'm doing. I freeze, back away.

Immovable hands stop my progress, dig into my arms.

I wince.

His grip loosens, turns into a soft skim over my biceps. "Sorry. It's just." Here it comes. "You're in heat."

I swivel out of his reach and brush myself off, rolling my eyes. (And ignoring my omega's protest at being separated from the strapping, available alpha). "No kidding."

Sam looks lost, his puppy eyes on full display. "I've never seen you in heat."

"I've never been." I channel my fluctuating emotions into anger and glare. "Door's that way." I point.

"Right." He bites his lip, grabs his duffel, casts one lingering glance at me before heading out.

Why was he so easily persuadable? I brush away a wayward tear and throw the nearest object--the tv remote--at the innocent door.

My last coherent thought is satisfaction at the thunk and a wish that the door was my brother's retreating back.


	4. Discoveries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just started my two weeks as a single mother. (My husband is in Dallas studying for a dispatch license). Here's hoping I--and the house--survive.

Sam's POV:

1998:

I squeeze Jennifer tighter under my right arm. Thanks to the fact that I've finally started growing, the fact that my older, hotter brother no longer shadows me at school (I'm not convinced Dean ever went to class, even though I'm positive he would have excelled had he put in the slightest effort), and--perhaps most importantly--the confidence I've gained after receiving my first kiss from gorgeous Amy Pond, girls notice me, approach me, ask me to ask them out (?). 

I've been stuck--by myself--in this town long enough to take Jen to see Rush Hour, to a coffee shop, and to the high school's women's volleyball game (two of her best friends aspire to make varsity next year). We've made it to third base and, based on the lace bra I detect under her pink sweater, I have high hopes of going all the way tonight.

Thank goodness Dad and Dean expect to be gone--they were a couple states away at last check-in--for at least another week.

The motel room I'm leading Jen to might be junky but it is all mine. No intimating alpha father, no too-pretty-to-be-real omega brother. Just me.

I let go of my date (have we been going out long enough to call her my girlfriend?) so I can fumble in my pocket for my room key. She snuggles against my side, her developing chest brushing my arm, her perfume invading my senses. I bite my lip to avoid gasping, nearly drop my key.

She giggles, causing her torso to vibrate against my body, her breath to tickle the hair curling around my neck.

Suddenly, all I can think about is getting inside her.

Of course, my blood pooling pretty far south of my brain means that it takes an inordinately long time to unlock that freaking door. But at last I achieve it, and we tumble inside.

Only to find my solitary (for the past month) motel room is far from unoccupied.

Pheromones slam into me, literally knocking me back a step. Twin huffs from the nearest bed scream loudly in the otherwise quiet room, accompanied by slap of sweaty skin rubbing over sweaty skin. A tousled blond head peers at me around the brunette bouncing on top of him. Dean.

My mouth forms his name but no sound comes out.

He seems to hear me, anyway. "Hey, Sammy," he pants. "Little busy here." The beta swivels her hips and he groans, "Give me ten."

I back out of the room, pulling Jen with me.

I expect her to make an excuse to leave, but instead she turns to me, eyes glowing omega gold, and says, "So, should we get another room?"

If the mixed scents of aroused omega male and beta female strongly affect unpresented me, I can't imagine what they're doing to her libido. Not about to argue with her plan, though, so fifteen minutes later, I'm pounding her through the mattress of a single-bed room. 

But, for some reason, every time I close my eyes, I see wide green orbs or a freckled nose or high cheekbones or pouty lips or a chiseled jaw or a hard, lean body, instead of the soft petiteness of my maybe-girlfriend.

I'm bizarrely relieved the next morning when I awaken to find my groin aching with a burgeoning knot.

It's perfectly normal for an alpha to find his omega sibling attractive. Right?

*

Now:

I pace in front of Dean's--previously our--motel room. The powerful heat scent has no trouble finding cracks and crevices to escape outside and inform any alphas and omegas (and likely a fair number of betas) that a fertile omega resides within.

I should return to the room I procured for myself, get some rest. I really, really should. But. But my alpha won't let me leave. He wants me to protect the vulnerable omega. He wants me to soothe his heat. What's frustrating is that this shouldn't be a problem. In fact, medical experts suggest unmated omegas spend their heats rooming with alpha relatives. The alpha's familiar presence and smell help to calm the omega's heat symptoms without making either party desperate for sex. However, as I learned when I did some research to discover just how much of a freak I am, some siblings are genetically different enough that this method will not and cannot work. Dean, despite being a proud Winchester, is every inch a Campbell. I, despite my neverending quarrels with my father, am every inch a Winchester. So my alpha clamors at me to not just protect and soothe, but claim the gorgeous, delectable, available omega.

Yeah. Really not an option.

Especially since Dean and I aren't getting along too well right now and it's only his omega that wants me.

And I don't really want him. Right?

Once Dean's Purgatory PTSD becomes manageable, I'm going to return to college, complete my degree, go to law school, and get mated to a beta woman. Right? Right. I nod to myself.

In the meantime, there are two (nonsexual) actions I can take to help Dean. First, I cover his door with my alpha scent, smearing spit and sweat into the wood. Sperm would be the most effective substance, but I can't bring myself to go there. This, combined with the reality that I spent time in that room and many of belongings are still in there, should discourage amorous alphas from disturbing my brother. Next I locate our stash of emergency and painkillers and pull out the bottle of opiates. Those should keep Dean restful and loopy for the remainder of his heat.

I set the pills in front of Dean's door, along with a six-pack of bottled water, and text him that I left something for him.

I can't resist hovering in the vicinity until my brother successfully retrieves the items. Without being accosted. 

I try to stop myself from admiring his ruddy glow, golden-green eyes, and messy, sweat-damp hair. I'm unsuccessful.

*

A week later, I hurry to meet up with Dean on what appears to be a case involving vampires that he snuck out to hunt without informing me. Okay, I even sound like a possessive knothead to myself. But seriously?--We're supposed to be partners.

Oh, yeah. I forgot. He found himself a new partner for this venture.

I park my stolen car and head for the pier.

I spot Dean's shapely silhouette right away. He shares a boat with another man. A burly, bearded man, whose protective stance apprises me of his alpha designation long before they're close enough for me to smell him. A stranger to me but clearly far from one to Dean, if their intimate interactions are anything to go by.

When did I clench my fists?

In seemingly no time, a glaring, defensive Dean hops onto the pier (after silently daring me, on pain of death, to offer him a hand) and I'm getting introduced to his friend. Benny. I take his hand even though a frighteningly large part of me would rather spit on it or even chop it off.

His skin feels cool, not an improbable scenario, given he just boated over chilly water. And yet . . . . I squeeze the appendage in a grip so tight it could cut off circulation, but instead of flinching, he squeezes back just as strongly. Just who is this alpha? (And where did Dean pick him up?) The wind speeds up, swirls around us, tangling my hair and presenting my nose with the unmistakable scent of alpha musk and blood. The world blooms red for a passing moment. Vampire.

This Benny is a vampire.

Good. If he's a monster, I can kill him. That's what we do, after all--as Dean, himself, has told me time after time. My free hand strays to my knife. My gaze, though, drifts from Benny to my brother. He shakes his head, pleads with his eyes for me to spare his . . . his . . . . Is Benny really just a friend?

Worse than the silent plea, though, is the promise of murder in those green eyes. He's both begging me not to kill his . . . monster and promising deadly retribution should I do so anyway. I thought I was the one he felt that way about. I thought I was the only one he could live without.

How long have I been taking my brother's love for granted?

My left hand slips from my knife handle, my right from Benny's grasp.

The bloodsucker gifts Dean with a concerned, tender expression before leaving. Which he returns.

I almost expect him to follow Benny, to leave me for my replacement.

How?--How did I never see this happening?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this chapter dipped into canonical events. That will happen occasionally.


	5. Interlude: Benny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized that the one thing this story was missing was some Benny perspective. So, I upped the chapter count in order to include two Benny segments. This is the first.

Benny's POV:

A year ago:

We've just defeated a band of shapeshifters when the smell slams into me. Fresh omega human. How . . . ?

Without conscious thought, I race in his direction, accompanied by the small group of vamps I've been running with lately. (None of us bother to form nests.--There doesn't seem much point, when our endless days are spent fighting and dying instead of bonding).

The closer we get the source of that tantalizing scent, the greater the number of (other) monsters we encounter. Werewolves moaning about a hot, juicy, delicious, beating heart, ready to rip their packmates apart for a mere taste. Lone rugarus panting for a single mouthful of soft omega flesh. Wraiths whispering about unspoiled, unputrified fluids. And leviathan, so many leviathan, grunting personal promises of revenge.

Actually, now that I'm listening, the goo monsters aren't the only ones muttering about retribution.

Who is this human? This hunter?

We sneak in the direction of that beckoning aroma, destroying any competition we come across, our fangs distended and our sensitive noses twitching.

All I can think about is sinking my teeth into a delicate neck, guzzling sweet, rich, ripe blood.

Then.

I burst through a tangle of branches and spot him.

He spins fluidly, the same graceful arc of his weapon beheading one assailant and stabbing another. He kicks the Jinn attempting to take advantage of the moment it takes to remove his blade from a werewolf's chest before easily killing him, adding the body to the pile of corpses surrounding his lithe figure.

My vampire companions audibly salivate. They nearly trip over each other in their haste to get to the shapely human. To circle him, attack him, pull him down and drain him.

The human turns, granting me a glimpse of a proud, fierce, beautiful face, while his seductive mortal essence wafts into my nose.

No.

This stunning creature will not die today.

I join the fight, cut down my fellow vampires without hesitation.

Certainty fills me, in a way it has not since my arrival in Purgatory: This gorgeous stranger is my future.

*

Now:

The alpha's fingers grip my hand so tightly the bones would break were I still human. I meet his hard, murderous, red-rimmed gaze unflinchingly. He looms threateningly, towering over me by at least half a foot, his baggy clothing utterly failing to hide his powerful build.

This was not what I pictured when listening to Dean gush about his sweet, sensitive little brother.

The hand crushing mine jerks, while those icy eyes melt into boiling fury, comprehension splashing his handsome face. I'm not surprise to see his free fist curl around a lethal knife. Few hunters would have figured me out so quickly, so effortlessly--especially when I'm displaying no openly vampiric traits. 

Dean did report that his brother's a genius. 

My (second) death is written on the giant alpha's chiseled visage, but somehow I feel no fear. If I die--when I die--it will come at the hands of the omega beside me, not his intimidating brother. I'm certain of it. And. I can smell Sam's longing for his brother's approval, sense his deeply-buried desperation to belong to him and with him. It doesn't matter how passionately he wants to kill me: he won't do so without Dean's permission.

Which my om-I mean, my friend will never give.

Sure enough, Dean shakes his head and the hot pressure against my palm drops away at the same time as Sam's fingers slide from the knife hilt.

That's my cue to leave.

Still, I feel a strange reluctance to walk away--a perception almost that I'm moving in the wrong direction, that I belong beside my lovely Dean and his gorgeous, inscrutable brother.

Which makes no sense.

*

A longing for home swells within me. I ignore the enticing voices murmuring that 'home' is a strong, attractive, omega hunter and head south.

As the air grows warm and humid and the accents lilt into drawls, I begin to feel comfortable, optimistic. The familiarity heats my (un)dead interior, as nostalgia teases me with memories of my life when I was alive. Of my long-dead mate. He was so luminous on our wedding day, with his white suit accentuating his broad shoulders, his veil smoothing over his dirty blond tresses. Come to think of it, he looked startlingly like a brown-eyed version of Dean.

The small mobile telephone I am still unused to buzzes in my pocket. Speaking of Dean . . . .

"Good evening, cher." It's exactly how I would have greeted Pierre. "How goes it with that brother of yours?"

There's a pause. In the background, I hear the distant roar of cars, muffled voices, doors slamming, and--louder--a metallic snapping sound. Dean must be standing outside a motel located near a busy highway and clicking his lighter open and shut. Ah, vampire hearing. Dean eventually comments, "Dude, you sound like you just stepped out of Gone with the Wind."

"Sorry, brother." I don't know that I am--my old-fashioned words prompted my friend to reference a film I've actually seen. "I haven't been in the twenty-first century for too long." (Time doesn't mean much in Purgatory).

A snick. He's ignited the flame. "Hey, that one's old enough that you've seen it, haven't you?" He sounds delighted with this discovery.

I took Pierre to see it, before . . . before. "Yeah, brother, I have."

Another snick, this time followed by a tell-tale inhale of breath. "Listen, I'm sorry about how things went the other night. Sam, he-"

"No need to explain." I really don't want to hear the remainder of that sentence, whether it's a justification of Sam's rudeness or an apology for introducing us. It all adds up to the reality that I will have to win Sam over if I want to remain a fixture in Dean's life. Somehow.

"Right." Inhale, exhale. "Just. Tell me if you need any more blood. Or help with more vamps. Or anything. Okay?" A longer inhale. I hope I'm not the reason he changed his mind about quitting.

"And if you ever need help, just call and I'll be there." I would cross the world for him, kill for him, die for him. "Promise me."

Clothes rustle. "Yeah, okay."

Better than nothing. Better than the rejection I fear will one day come.


	6. Return

Dean's POV:

2007:

I gape at Sam, my mouth opening and closing like a fish. I knew logically he grew into a handsome, tall, well-built alpha, but all I saw when I looked at him, all I saw was my small, skinny, baby brother. It helped that he always hid his body in baggy jeans and hoodies.

Until now.

The tux caresses his lean muscles, hugging every curve and angle, revealing a long, taut, powerful body.

No wonder Gert can't keep her hands off him.

A cold titter sounds to my left. "What was that you said about not objectifying people?" Icy fingers freeze my arm. Right. I'm here with Bela, otherwise known as the world's most pretentious, aggravating knothead.

I shrug her hand off. "Just making sure the kid is all right."

She raises one perfectly-plucked, skeptical eyebrow. "I didn't specify who you might be ogling."

She didn't? No, she didn't. And this ballroom is filled with well-dressed individuals, many of whom are exceptionally attractive. I smirk at her. "And I didn't specify which kid I was checking on." Not that anyone else in the room seems quite young enough to still be considered a kid.

Bela leans closer, her barely-covered breasts brushing against my chest, her breath tickling my ear. "Well, I think the unnamed kid shares your interest." She concludes with a nip on my ear that would be playful were it not so obviously calculated.

I flinch, reacting to both her actions and her implications. Still, I can't resist darting my eyes in Sam's direction to see if there's any truth to Bela's claim.

He's staring over Gert's diminutive form, boring into me with orbs that glow a shade of crimson so bright as to be noticeable across the room. His observation is far more invasive than Bela's alpha approval of my dressed up figure, but somehow it doesn't bother me as much. In fact . . . . My channel starts to moisten in reaction to the attention of a virile alpha. No. Another glance at Sam reveals hunger darkening his handsome face.

I quickly turn, follow Bela out of the room.

Certainty rises within me. Sam may not be consciously aware of the fact, but he would knot me, mate me, claim me if given the opportunity.

I can't let that happen--can't let him realize how much he wants me, can't let him act on that knowledge. There's too much uncertainty in our lives, too much likelihood that one of us would face the devastation of alpha/omega widowhood.

*

Now:

I gulp a mouthful of whiskey. 

Sam shoots me a disapproving glare before turning his attention back to our recently returned best friend. I'm still not sure how Cas got out of Purgatory, but I'm both grateful he's here and disturbed by how relieved I feel that there's a buffer between Sam and me.

It's just . . . .

If Sam disappeared, I would tear apart the earth, followed by heaven and hell and Purgatory and wherever angels go, to find him. Sam apparently just accepted I was gone and decided to move on with his life. With that--my mouth curls inadvertently into a disgusted grimace--beta chick. And he says it's over with her, but he still wants to leave. And. I can't help suspecting he would run back to her if given the chance. Choose her over me. (I wonder if there's a way to test that?)

Then there's the hypocrisy. Sam parades monster friend after monster friend in front of me, sleeps with half of them, insists all monsters deserve the chance to prove they won't harm humans, and then refuses to grant Benny that same consideration. Because vampires are different than werewolves and kitsune and, I don't know, demons?!

The cheap, fragile, paper-like linen bedsheet splits apart, ripping under my nails, my clenched fist.

Sam chuckles, dimples popping for our angel companion. He leans one hand on the back of Castiel's chair, so he's practically hugging him as he demonstrates hunting techniques on his laptop. "Anyway, so you click here with the mouse-"

"I still don't understand how that object resembles a rodent." Cas studies the mouse--which Sam must have bought for the express purpose of making computers easier for Cas--in confusion.

Sam shakes his head, hiding a grin, as he threads the hand not touching Cas through his untidy hair.

Did Sammy extend his preference for nonhuman betas to male angels?

No. No that's unlikely. Probably. Besides, isn't he still hung up on Amanda or whatever her name is?

That brings my thoughts full circle. Hmm. My eyes flash to Sam's phone innocently charging on the nightstand, over to Sam's distracted back, then return to his phone. Time for an experiment. Assuming a casual air--just in case either of the other men remember my existence in the next few minutes--I unlock the phone, scroll through the contacts until I find Am--oh, she's Amelia, not Amanda--and replace her number with one of mine.

Job done, I smirk, stretch, call out, "Hey, Sam, why don't you go pick up some grub?--I'm starving."

*

The moment an eye-rolling, sighing Sam roars off in the Impala, I turn to Cas. "Could you zap me to Benny while Sam is gone?"

A slow blink. Cas is probably mentally translating my question into Enochian. "You don't want your brother to know you're visiting the vampire?"

"Nope." I grasp his shoulder. "Let's go."

He regards me silently. Judgingly?

Anyway, "I need to make a quick stop, first."

*

We land directly in Benny's camper.

He drops a pot with a clang onto the tiny stove. He slips automatically into a fighting stance, fangs out, eyes flaring. After a tense handful of seconds, his face clears as recognition washes over it. He nods at us. "Dean. Castiel." He straightens the pot, stirs it with a wooden spoon, causing a delicious, spicy smell to waft out.

Is he cooking? "Are you cooking?" Vampires don't eat anything and only drink blood, last I checked.

A soft smile. "This is one the recipes I learned from my parents when I was a kid. The smell is comforting." He sprinkles some paprika in the concoction, bends over to breathe in the resulting aroma. "I usually donate the food to the hungry person to cross my path."

I gulp. Did Benny just become even more attractive? (Should I be attracted to my best friend? Well. I glance at Cas. One of my two best friends.) I push that thought away. "Speaking of hungry people, I brought you something." I pass him the cooler of blood bags I collected from whichever hospital Cas took me to before teleporting us here.

A mix of gratitude and relief brightens his fine visage. "Thank you, cher. You're a life-saver." That smile could melt glaciers. "You too, Castiel," he adds, "Merci, brother."

The angel's disinterested expression doesn't change. "Dean insisted."

"Well, I'm mighty glad he did." Benny actually winks.

My boxers dampen. Before I can invent a sensible reply, I see Castiel stiffen from the corner of my eye. His face blanks, telegraphing the receipt of a message through angel radio.

Sure enough, he shakes himself a minute later, says, "I have to go. Pray to me when you need to be taken back to your motel," and vanishes.

Benny goggles thoughtfully at the empty space. He finally comments, "Sam doesn't know you're here." It isn't a question.

"No."

"Huh." He turns back to the stove.

I move closer, examine the contents of the pot. Soup. Some kind of gumbo, maybe? "Looks delicious," I say. "Smells amazing."

A soft upturn of lips. "Would you like some?"

I remember that Sam's getting food--that he'll be suspicious if I'm not hungry. "Only a little."

"Then, here." Benny raises the wooden stirring spoon to my lips.

I open my mouth, accept the offering. Wow. Just as incredible as it smells. My eyes fall shut and a moan slips out as I lick the spoon clean.

An intake of breath greets my ears.

I open my eyes, find Benny standing close to me, breathing shallowly, his eyes dark. A note of pure lust spikes his scent. He licks his lips.

I snap.

Within a heartbeat, our lips smash together, our limbs entwine. It's heady, feral, almost violent until Benny slows us down, softens the kiss into a gentle, romantic embrace, his hand caressing my body as his lips worship my mouth.

We don't separate until a cleared throat informs us of Castiel's return.


	7. Boiling Over

Sam's POV:

2003:

The smell punches me first. Oil and leather and tobacco, underscored with apple-cinnamon and tart cherries and sweet omega musk. Home, my mind supplies. These are the scents of home. I subconsciously breathe in deeply as I wind a corner, following the comforting aroma.

I'm not surprised to find Dean leaning against the bricks, clad in Dad's leather jacket and an arch smile. "Heya, Sammy," he grins.

"Dean." I tuck my hands into the pocket of my Stanford hoodie. "What are you doing here?"

He peels himself fluidly, almost sinuously, off the wall. "Had a case in San Fran. Thought I'd pop in to see my kid brother."

" . . . Oh." I don't point out that traffic makes the travel time between there and here far longer than the actual distance implies. "Dad know you're here?"

He shrugs, pulls a battered box out of his jeans pocket.

I roll my eyes. Dean's lighting up to deflect a question. Some things never change. "I'll take that as a no."

He inhales, eyes dropping shut in a sweep of long lashes.

My breath catches at his beauty. I forgot how truly stunning my brother is.

Dean's eyes pop open with a mischievous twinkle a second before he blows acrid smoke in my face. His snicker at my resulting cough turns into a full-blown hearty laugh when I glare between the fingers I raised to cover my mouth. Was I really just admiring this juvenile jerk?

I take several deliberate steps back, cross my arms. "Did you need something?" 

He studies the smoke curling from his cig, a curious shyness softening his eyes. "Thought you might want to help us. This one's right up your alley." His gaze lifts to meet mine. "We've been researching for days." A pause. "Dad hit it off with the librarian. Doubt he'll notice my absence."

I let my arms fall to my sides as a sigh escapes my lungs. "Look, Dean, I left that life. And Dad told me not to come back, anyway."

Dean drops his smoke, even though there's plenty of life left in it, and stubs it out. He walks right up to me, doesn't stop until our chests nearly touch, until it's startlingly clear that I've outgrown my big brother. "I'm sure he'd change his mind if you helped us." He pats my shirt, just over the spot where my heart attempts to beat through my skin, rubs his hand up to my neck and around my shoulder. "Besides, babies are dying. Don't you want to help them? Healthy kids just suddenly sicken and die even though they're eating like crazy."

I remember how to breathe. "It's fairies. They're replacing the babies with facsimiles and using them to collect breastmilk. Just place a pair of iron scissors under the crib mattresses and the fairies will be so repulsed they'll return the real kids." I rub my suddenly aching forehead.

Silence. "Right. I'm sure that's it. Sure you won't come back with me to make sure?" His voice sounds faint, remote.

I close my eyes briefly. "Dean, you have to accept that I'm done with hunting. I'm never going back to it." I try not to stomp as I race away. 

But I can't stop myself from turning to watch my dejected brother slide into the car he must have hot-wired and drive away.

*

Now:

Dean's deceptively casual pose when I walk into the motel room contrasts mightily with Castiel's stiffness. I raise an eyebrow as I set the food on the table. (A chicken caesar wrap for me, bacon cheeseburger for Dean, and a slider in case Cas decides to join us).

All this secretiveness probably just means they were exchanging war stories about Purgatory--that Dean was once again confiding in someone other than me.

Of freaking course.

A snort flies out before I can suppress it. I try to camouflage it by clearing my throat. "Anyone hungry?"

A flash of relief crossing his face, Dean hastens over to collect the burger I hold out to him. His scent precedes him, wafting tantalizingly over me, making me hungry for the sweet edibles I rarely eat. Except. Dean's omega fragrance swirls and merges with darker, muskier notes. Alpha notes. Specifically, "Benny," I growl. "You were with Benny."

Dean tenses. "What if I was? I'm allowed to have friends outside of you." Across the room, our angel shifts his rigid position, distracting our attention. Dean adds, "And Cas."

I sniff the air wafting around my brother. Benny's essence bleeds into Dean's far more firmly than could be achieved by a mere platonic get-together of buddies. My blood ignites, burning and boiling until a red shroud falls over the entirety of the room.

Dean tears open his burger, retreats to other side of the chamber, muttering, "Typical."

I blink rapidly, dig my fists into my forehead. Why does the thought of Benny touching Dean leave me so enraged that I want to rampage through every alpha, vampire or otherwise, until I reach him? Why do I want to behead him with the dullest knife in my arsenal, so that his death takes an excruciatingly long time?

My hands fall to my sides as my eyes open. My gaze snaps to Dean, like--come to think of it--it always does. He's licking a dribble of ketchup off his finger, pink lips curving around the digit to suck up every drop.

My jeans tighten, my knot swelling in response to the sight. Of my brother.

No. No, this isn't (supposed to be) what I want. I'm going to retire from hunting (soon!), marry a beta girl, finish my college degree, and settle down in a cul-de-sac with a nine-to-five job and lots of pups. Isn't that what I've always longed for?

*

A week later, I occupy a single-bed motel room in Kermit, waiting for Amelia and determined to pursue that dream, whether it's with her or another woman. Not only did Dean choose Benny over me (again!), he also tricked me into leaving the vampire hunt by sending me a fake SOS text from the number he replaced with Amelia's. 

I grind my teeth so hard my jaw aches.

Why did I have to realize I'm irrationally in love with my brother--and probably have been half my life--right when he decides he'd rather be with a vampire? Instead I just took his devotion for granted. Guess that means I deserve this. It's not like it would have worked, anyway. Sibling mateships only thrive when the brothers (or sisters) are sufficiently genetically dissimilar and it's not like we're going to pop into a clinic to find out if we're compatible.

(Though I suspect we are).

I'm done anyway. Dean making me think my ex is dead or nearly just to get me out of the way so I wouldn't take out his pet vampire was the last straw.

I won't go back.

I'm interrupted from my thoughts by the subject of them.

Dean waltzes in, angry and unapologetic. Even when he acknowledges he was wrong, he twists the blame to me, insisting "If you'd have trusted me, all of this could have been avoided."

Because my big brother always knows what's best. I point out, "You didn't want me to trust you. You wanted me to trust Benny, and I can't do that." The vampire's hated name tastes foul on my tongue.

Dean glares at me. "This is supposed to be a partnership. If I trust someone, you should trust me enough to trust him, too."

I scoff. "Doesn't work that way. And, even if it did, you violated that trust when you sent that text."

He throws up his arms. "You hated Benny, anyway. Never even gave him a chance, even though you're all about monsters deserving the opportunity to show they won't hurt humans, or whatever." He turns away. "Never knew you could be such a hypocrite."

My alpha rears his head at our omega turning his back. Especially while defending another alpha. Before I consciously realize what I'm doing, I spin him around and slam our lips together.

Instead of pushing me away and throwing a (much deserved) punch like I expect, Dean kisses back. No. Kisses isn't the right word. He mauls me back. We're biting and scratching and poking. It feels more like a continuation of our fight than a romantic interlude.

I slam Dean against the door, hoist him into my arms until his legs circle my waist. He squeezes my torso with his strong thighs, nearly suffocating me. I nip his shoulder, almost hard enough to draw blood.

He gasps, moans, tenses. Warm dampness spreads between us.

Oh.

Dean sags in my arms. I set him down, ignoring my alpha's howls to knot, bite, claim. This is far from the appropriate time for that. (Although a dingy motel room strikes me as the appropriate place for Dean and me to physically and mentally tie).

My brother collects himself, asks, "What do we do now?"

My alpha eagerly supplies a myriad of suggestions. I ignore them. "That depends on whether or not you're done with him." I won't share my omega with a vampire.

"Well, honestly, I don't know." He meets my eyes defiantly. When neither of us backs down, he adds, "Glad I made the drive," and leaves.

I sink onto the couch. That decides that. Guess we're no longer SamandDean.

When Amelia arrives an hour later, I don't hesitate to knot her.


	8. Break up?

Dean's POV:

Two or three years ago:

The soulless shell of my brother slinks towards me, intentions plain in the ruby of his eyes and the smolder of his pheromones. I try to back up but promptly bang into the counter in Bobby's kitchen, my coffee sloshing in protest.

Humor being one of the few emotions Robo-Sam retained, he laughs.

I glare.

He dabs the brown dribbles with a worn grey rag of a hand towel. "Calm down," he comments. "This coffee isn't even hot."

"It's still caffeinated," I point out. "Some of us still have to sleep and aren't perky at all hours."

Sam sets the towel on the counter but doesn't bother to budge from his new position centimeters in front of me. Instead, he smooths back my ungelled hair, allows his fingers to drift slowly down my face until he's tracing my lips.

I stare up at him, not breathing, as my omega genetics turn everything I see golden, until my brother looks like the most beautiful statue ever carved.

Statue.

Without his soul, he is a statue. A moving statue. Automaton? 

I duck under his arms, move away. "No."

Sam turns. "I didn't ask anything."

I drain the final cold dregs of coffee. "Not with words."

He's perplexed in a way my real brother rarely was. "But you want it." After all, my arousal noticeably and undeniably perfumes the air.

I place my mug in the sink. "Doesn't matter." I could point out that, while my body might be interested, my conscience most definitely is not, but that is something this version of my brother is incapable of comprehending. Plus, I have a suspicion he's perfected the art of silencing the objections of the omegas, betas, and--I've noticed--alphas who catch his eye.

A hand alights on my hip. A deep voice murmurs in my ear. "All that matters is what we both want."

I step out of his reach. Soulless will never be dissuaded from his pursuit by an appeal to morality or sensitivity. (Especially since he's figured out his ultimate success is guaranteed). Only logic will work. "The thing is, Sam, without a soul you can't fully consent. It would almost like rape. And I can't do that to you." 

He considers this, shrugs, heads for the living room/library.

I decide some chemical relief is worth Bobby's wrath and light up.

*

Now:

As one hour creeps in the direction of two, I grow convinced that Sam chose Amelia after all. He did reek of her when Cas picked him up to help with the rescue (does it count as one when the kid died anyway?) of Little Angel Alfie. 

I'm not sure what I really want from Sam, but I do know that I can't handle wondering if or when he'll next run off on me, so I meant it when I ordered him to decide, once and for all, between a 'normal' life, with or without Amelia, and a hunter's life with me. Though maybe not with-with me.

I . . . .

I can't forget the tenderness of Benny's embrace. (So different from Sam's furious passion). More than that, I can't escape the suspicion that Benny belongs by my side, just as much as Sam does. (Not like that!--Alphas don't share and I wouldn't want the hassle of more than one mate, anyway). Shouldn't Sam sense that, too?

Is he capable of sensing anything relating to Benny beyond jealous rage?

My spike of familiar anger fades into sadness. It doesn't matter now. Before our separation, Sam insisted that he would not stay with me unless I was done with Benny. How could I ask him to end things with Amelia if I didn't honor that?

Worst phone call I've ever made.

Doesn't help that he was so freaking understanding. (Is my vampire friend a saint?)

You know what? Maybe I should call him back. It doesn't look like Sam's returning.

I locate my phone in the corner I threw it after that break-up call, check for damages, open my contacts list. 

The front door clicks quietly open, revealing Sam. 

*

After sharing a silent meal on the couch while half-watching an X-Files rerun, Sam huffs a breath in a signal that he wants to talk.

I don't take my eyes off Scully's lovely face. "What?"

"I was wrong." He plays with the loosening fabric on the knee of his jeans. "I know I said you have to be done with-with the vampire, but" he rips the visible strings "I shouldn't have. I can't dictate who you're friends with."

I steal his beer. "You got that right."

Instead of taking it back, he pushes his hand through his already tangled hair. "Just. If you choose him, don't let me see too much of it." He gets up. "Something about that guy turns me into the worst knothead. Night." He leaves the room.

I stare at my phone for the rest of the night.

*

It's a couple weeks before I can arrange time to sneak in a visit with Benny. Though it helps that he's traveling around now, too, so we just need to sync up our locations, instead of my finding a--likely transparent--excuse to hunt in or near Louisiana. 

My impetus came from Charlie. Not long before we left Moondoor, she took advantage of Sam visiting the tech tent to pull me aside. "Listen, it's not my place. But, whoever it was you broke up with, you're clearly not over her. Or him." She raised a sly eyebrow. "Are you sure you don't just need to, I don't know, talk and work things out?"

I called Benny the next day.

We meet at a tranquil park on the outskirts of Lincoln, Nebraska. Benny seems paler to me, the maroon bags beneath his eyes darker. He's also strangely shifty, eyes constantly darting from one corner of the park to another. When they land on joggers, picnickers, or honeymooners, they grow dark with unmistakable hunger.

When he turns to me, sadness swims deep with his blue orbs. "I've been strugglin' brother," he doesn't need to tell me.

I brush my lips against his. "I can help." Thankfully, I remembered to steal some blood.

"Thank you, cher." He accepts the offering, but pulls away from me, eyes downcast. "You don't have to keep doing this. I get by on animal blood." He swallows, glances at my neck, swallows again. It's a lie. He won't be able to hold out forever.

A heavy silence. 

I break it with an apology. "Look, I'm sorry it took me so long to call. I was figuring some things out."

He nods. "Still are, I'd guess."

I can't deny that.

After a moment, he strides over to a bench, sits down. When I join him, he observes, "You know, your Sam reminds me a lot of my Andrea. So tall, so proud, so stubborn."

"So alpha," I interject. It hits me for the first time that Benny's doomed love story was even more subversive than I at first realized. Almost unheard of at the time and definitely illegal.

A half-smile. "But also very sweet underneath that."

That describes Sam, but, "Was she?"

"She really was." Tenderness washes over his face. 

Warmth infuses me. It makes me happy that he can remember the woman she was with nostalgic love and bliss. I reach around to give him a side-hug.

He scoots away.

Am I being rejected?

Benny softens, takes my hand. "Dean. You need to be sure you want this. Me. I won't be a rebound or a consolation prize."

I start to protest that he's neither, but he raises one hand to stop me.

"I brought up Sam and compared him to Andrea to see if he's in the past for you the way she is for me." He takes a breath. "He isn't."

He rises to his feet. "Let me know. I'll be here for you no matter what."

He leaves me sitting there, wondering how I can be in love with two such different men at the same time and why it feels impossible to choose between them.


	9. Loss

Sam's POV:

2008:

I cradle Dean's mangled body, feel his unnaturally still form grow steadily colder as his sweet scent fades until all I smell is blood and death and demons.

Hard to believe that only a few hours ago, we were singing along to Bon Jovi in the Impala, both of us gloriously alive and--for that brief moment--happy. His eyes sparkled, his scent deepened, his full lips opened wide as his deep voice soared. (Endearingly off-tune).

Another tear trails down my cheek, joining the salty tracks made by its predecessors.

I angrily wipe away the moisture that dares to blur my view of my brother's still-so-beautiful face. I use the corner of my shirt to rub the blood and dirt from his stunning visage. Dean was a young, gorgeous, extroverted, witty, flirtatious, fun-loving omega. He should not have died for someone as flawed, as tainted, as worthless as me.

My fist falls of its own accord to punch the floor beside my brother.

Despair melds into determination.

This will not be the end. Dean will not spend an eternity of endless torture for me.

I will save him. Even if I have to storm the very gates of Hell.

Dean's life does not end here.

*

Now:

Purgatory's eternal dimness darkens still further after Bobby's essence flows into the mystical wound on my arm. I just said goodbye to my surrogate father for what I know will be the final time. (When I release his soul once we return to Earth, he'll zoom straight up to a peaceful afterlife of Tory Spelling music and all the books he can read).

I heave a sigh, turn to Benny. "It's your turn."

He steps forward, pauses, frowns.

"What is it?" I ask. A rustling sound that could mean encroaching monsters has me hastening towards him, adding, "We have to hurry."

Instead of answering, Benny takes my hand. He rubs my palm with his thumb as he looks up at me.

I stare down at our joined hands. A strange urge to confide in the man before me causes a humorless laugh to force its way from my lungs. "You know," I start, "If I'd known that all I needed to get into Hell was find a rogue reaper to bring me to Purgatory, I could have saved Dean from forty years of torment."

Intense eyes drop. "But then you would never have met the angel."

I try to picture the past several years of my life without Castiel and fail. "Still-"

He lets go of my hand to press a finger over my mouth. "Dean would say it was worth it."

I could argue that, since Dean doesn't put much value on his own life, this isn't saying much, but I merely nod. A louder rustle jerks my thoughts in another direction. I thrust my arm in Benny's direction. "Hurry!"

He shakes his head. "I'm not coming."

"What? Of course you are." I gesture around the dreary, dangerous dimension we're in. "Why would you want to stay here?"

"It's easier." He sounds certain.

"That makes no sense." How could it possibly be 'easier' to constantly fight for your life? "Come on. Dean's waiting for you."

Gentle fingers dance across my jaw. "It's easier here because the bloodlust is no longer my constant companion. I don't have to worry about attacking people."

I open my mouth to argue, but I can see his mind is made up. How much has he suffered these past months? I observe, "You've managed so far."

He shakes his head. "I haven't killed anyone, but it's only a matter of time."

I shorten the already small distance between us. "You won't. I was wrong about you. You're no monster."

He doesn't move. "I am."

"But-"

A pack of vampires bursts through the trees, shouts for Benny. The vampire glances at them before turning back to me. "Time for you to go, Sam."

"Benny?" I ask. "No."

"Yes." He cups my cheek. "It's me they want. You just make sure you tell Dean I said goodbye."

"I-" I'm not going to convince him to return with me, am I?

"Take care of him." Benny brushes my lips with his, runs to fight the other vamps.

As I'm walking into the portal, I see the bloodsuckers surround Benny. I scream his name, try to go to him, but the blinding light of the portal swallows me before I can.

"Benny," I whisper.

*

I glower at the freshly-turned earth hiding Benny's body. "I tried to get him to come with me, Dean. You have to believe me."

My brother bends down to grab a handful of soil, let it drift through his fingers. "I do. I believe you. Benny was really struggling."

"He told me." I (comfortingly?) grasp Dean's shoulder. 

Dean straightens, both hands tightening into fists. "I just wish he'd been willing to fight. I would have helped him."

As his mate? "I know. Listen, Dean." I swallow. "I'm sorry I was too blind with-to see that he wasn't a monster. I could have helped you, helped him, and maybe . . . ."

Dean's shaking his head. "I don't think it would have been enough."

I think of the vampires we've come across who tried to avoid harming humans. They all eventually failed. Even sweet, tragic Lenore. "There has to be something that would work. Some way of calming the bloodlust." A vision of the library in our new haven waltzes to the forefront of my brain. "Maybe the Men of Letters found something. I'll start looking as soon as we get back."

A soft, sweet, affectionate smell wafts past my nose. I look up to find Dean smiling dotingly at me. "You do that. I'll help." He grimaces. "At least, I'll provide nourishment for you."

My lips curve upwards in response. "Then we'll get another reaper to let us into Purgatory."

Somehow we've moved very close to one another. "There has to be more than one who's willing to transfer people."

"We'll get him back," I promise. I ignore my alpha's gnashing, howling that I should not participate in aiding my omega's quest for another man, another mate. All that matters is Dean's happiness. I don't deserve him, anyway. I suppress a sigh as I turn to head back to the Impala.

A hand snatches the sleeve of my jacket. Gold bleeds into the green eyes that lift to mine. "Sam," Dean says. "Benny made his choice. I'm making mine."

He kisses me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't the end of Benny. The final chapter is from his perspective and completes the story.


	10. Epilogue: Benny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My husband started his new position at his job today. Yay him!

Benny's POV:

2013:

Dean paces in front of a colorful graffitied wall, his lean muscles tense, his scent roiling with fear and stress. His green eyes shift constantly away from mine as he jabbers about Sam being stuck in Purgatory because it's on the way to Hell and he needed to rescue someone from there but now he's trapped because someone's killing reapers and . . . . "And I need someone to go get him." Green eyes finally pierce mine.

Oh. He wants me to run to the rescue of his intimidating alpha of a baby brother. Even though the only way to do that is to die. "Wow," I say. "When Dean Winchester asks for a favor, he's not screwing around."

Dean's lovely face flushes as he makes an appeal for sympathy, talking about the plight of his "little brother" as if the guy was a skinny tween instead of a gigantic muscle-bound hunter who would have no trouble surviving the perils of Purgatory, and whose impressive intellect nearly ensures that he'll find his way out. I almost make that very point, but a slight tremble in Dean's fingers alerts me to the reality that the omega brims with vulnerability. He's the metaphorical skinny tween.

"You need your alpha back soon as possible. That it?" I ask gently.

He startles, trembles rippling from one corner of his body to the other. A moment later, he catches himself, solidifies into an ice sculpture, complete with cold eyes capable of freezing anyone he looks at. "I'll find another way. I shouldn't have involved you." He grabs the door handle of his beloved Impala.

I hop forward, wrap my fingers around his wrist to stop him from climbing in his car and speeding away from me. I say the words that I know will break my own heart. "I never expected you to choose me over him."

He studies the hand still holding him. "I'm sorry. I . . . I really did fall for you. But. I can't live without Sam."

I nod. "So let's get him back for you."

Green eyes swirl with confusion. "How can you be okay with this? I led you on. For months. A year, if you count Purgatory."

How indeed? It is hardly normal alpha behavior to be so accepting of the rejection of one's omega. I force a smile. "You forget how old I am, cher."

"Yeah. Maybe." He slides his free hand over mine. "You're so . . . different. I think that's why I lo-care for you. So much." The last two words fade into a whisper.

He means it. "One request?"

Dean bites his lip, plumping it further. His voice sounds hoarse when he agrees.

"A kiss." I'll need the memory as fortification in the dark place I'm heading. (And staying, though I have no intention of telling Dean that. Not yet).

He responds by pressing his lips to mine. I forgot just how heady, how addictive his kisses are. More powerful than unsullied blood. I tease his mouth open while crushing him against the car and slipping one leg between both of his. The intoxicating smell of his accumulating slick tempts me to knot, to mate. But.

Dean disengages himself, slithers out of my arms. He gasps out, "When you get back, maybe . . . maybe we can . . . ."

If I ever come back. "Let's do this."

*

2020:

Recognition blooms on my assailant's face. "You're Benny. But. They said you were dead!"

I swing my handmade weapon, decapitating him. "Yeah. I hear that a lot." Rumors of my demise popped up around the time denizens of Purgatory began forming territorial societies instead of wandering about in small bands, and have persisted ever since. I suspect it has to do with the fact that I have neither joined nor formed a group.

"Amazing how misinformation spreads faster than truth." A silky, almost seductive, voice intones behind me.

I turn. The man--vampire--accosting me exudes authority in every milometer of his dark-skinned, long-eyelashed, beautiful form. I know, with a deep, internal certainty, that I'm regarding the originator of my species.

"Yes," he replies to my facial expression (or, possibly, my thoughts). "I'm the Alpha Vampire."--I can hear the capitalization.--"Your Alpha."

I back away. "I'm not looking for-"

He raises a hand, silencing me. "I have no interest in recruiting your membership in my nest." He smiles. "Though you would certainly be an asset."

"Then what are you interested in?" I raise an eyebrow even as I tense for flight. Altruism does not exist in Purgatory.

Instead of answering, he folds his arms behind his back. "You are acquainted with the Winchesters?"

My association with the dreaded hunters is common knowledge around here. (How, I don't know). "What about them?"

"They outwitted me and gave me a dignified death." He smiles again. "I wish to repay them."

I start inching away again. "Unless you can get me out of here and give me a spell to reduce bloodlust, I can't help you." 

I expect him to kill me but instead he chuckles. How is so cheerful a sound so terrifying? "I can." He pulls a small vial filled with a thick red liquid from his pocket. "Drink this." He pushes the container into my hand. "It's made from my blood and a few other ingredients." I must look skeptical because he adds. "It will work."

I spin the vial back and forth, watching the potion slosh against the glass. "I'm still stuck here." No need for an anti-bloodlust formula in the afterlife.

The Alpha points one long-nailed finger approximately south-east. "If you hurry, you will find a portal leading back to the human world."

My eyes widen. A portal is not the same as the human-only exit leading out of Purgatory. I could use it.

The Alpha gifts me another enigmatic smile. "Go."

*

The portal leads me to a vast, spotlessly-clean, underground bunker. Which is saturated with the distinctive scents of both Sam and Dean. This must be the home they found--and moved into--not long before my return to Purgatory.

An exploration leads me to find a kitchen, a library, a dungeon, multiple bedrooms, and the whiff of multiple individuals, most prominently Castiel. Does he live with them now?

A surge of jealousy blasts unexpectedly through me.

I quell it as I seek out a place to await the return of my erstwhile friend. And his brother.

*

Sam, Dean, and Castiel gape at me.

"I came through your portal," I explain.

Three voices respond at once. Sam comments, "I can see that." Castiel asks, "Did anyone follow you?" And Dean demands, "Are you staying this time?"

I nod at Sam, inform the angel that "The portal has some kind of repellent spell on it. I only got to it because I knew it was there. Thanks to the Alpha Vamp," and assure Dean, "And, yes, I'm staying. I won't leave unless you ask me to."

Dean's eyes capture my attention. "Good." The omega captivates me as much as ever; his scent remains as alluring as it was the day I left. His unmarked neck supplies the reason.

"You." My hand lifts of its own accord, skitters down the smooth expanse of his throat. "You haven't mated."

A huge mass thrusts itself between Dean and me. 

I blink. The mass solidifies, clearing into the familiar shape of Sam. Or not so familiar. Lines sharpen his handsome features. Stubble graces his cheeks. Experience hardens his eyes, thins his lips. His posture stands straighter, more confident. His figure is leaner but somehow looms larger. 

How many years have I been gone?

A second glance at Dean reveals he, too, has aged, his face no longer pretty, but perhaps even more breathtaking.

The angel quietly informs me, "You've been gone for seven years."

"Oh." I turn back to the Winchesters. "And you haven't . . . ?"

They exchange a lingering look, clasp hands.

Sam says, "It didn't feel right."

Dean adds, "Not when you were stuck in Purgatory."

Sam continues, "We've been looking for a way to bring you back."

Dean finishes, "But they said you were dead."

Those two certainly act like a mated couple. "Yeah, that rumor's been goin' around." I slide my vial out of my pocket. "I found the bloodlust spell. Well, it was given to me."

Sam raises a knowing eyebrow. "By the Alpha Vamp."

"Yep." I drink it. Purgatory's stasis still has its hold on me, but I can feel the potion working, can tell that it's effective--not that I had any doubts.

Dean rubs his neck. "Listen, now that you're back, we-"

Sam carries on, "We wanted you to know that you're part of our family, and-"

Dean points out, "And that you belong with us, if-"

Sam concludes, "If you want."

I realize what they're asking. It's tempting. In fact, it's incredibly easy to imagine myself sharing a life--and mateship--with the Winchesters. Had they asked me seven years ago, I might have agreed. But they are even more entwined in each other now than they were then. I would always be the outsider, the third wheel.

I want someone who will put me first.

I shake my head. "You two go ahead. Make each other honest."

They nod in sync.

*

Later, I sit beside Castiel in the dim library, sipping Chardonnay as I flip through a volume about the life, actions, and personality of the Alpha Vamp.

The angel peers over my shoulder. "He was such a compelling figure. I'm glad you got the chance to meet him." 

I look over at him. "As am I. He is my forefather, in a sense."

"Yes." A shadow crosses over his comely face, perhaps as a reaction to a recent meeting with his own father. "He is as much your ancestor as your parents." Luminescent blue orbs gaze earnestly into my eyes. Why did I never notice how lovely he is?

"That's a good way to look at it." I surreptitiously sniff the air, smell the clean scent of beta and the ozone of angel, and nothing else. Nothing of Jimmy Novak remains in this vessel. The gorgeous man before me is entirely Castiel.

He cocks his head at me, nods in silent understanding, before scooting closer and taking my hand. I smile, lean over while cupping his cheek.

A distance noise distracts me.

Thanks to my heightened senses, I know that Sam and Dean retired to Sam's room (because he has a bigger tv, even if his bed is less comfortable, according to their prior debate). I hear the moment when their whispers turn to moans. I smell their merging arousal. 

And I know the precise moment when Sam sinks his teeth into Dean's neck, sealing their bond.

"Finally," the angel says.

I raise my glass in a silent toast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Benny gets a happy ending, too. Hope it works.


End file.
